Sea-Dogs All! Part 12

"Not so, my master," replied the dripping boatman; "'tis the plaguy narrowness of these arches and the jutting of the pier foundations that cause the mishaps. Every fool that has handled an oar cannot shoot London Bridge."

"That may be," a.s.sented the forester; "every stream has its shoals and currents; nevertheless this Thames tide is to the Severn bore as calf is to angry bull."

Meanwhile Sir Walter was pointing out objects of interest to his fair companion. "Yonder building," he said, pointing to a hexagonal structure on the Surrey side of the river, "is the Globe Theatre. I must take ye all there some afternoon to hear some pretty comedy of sweet Will Shakespeare's. Master Morgan hath an ear for poetry, I believe; he will not snore through the love-making scenes."

Dolly blushed. At Blackfriars steps they landed, went into the city by the Lud Gate, pa.s.sed through St. Paul's and out into the Chepe again; thence to the "Swanne," where the knight took leave of them, promising to have them down to Whitehall next day if his duties at court gave him any leisure.

The shops in Chepe were closed; the apprentices ran loose with plenty of noise and racket. The sober merchants walked out to the Moorfields, with wife on arm and daughters dutifully following in modest train.

Work was ended. London was taking its evening recreation.

Chapter XVIII.

THREE BROKEN MARINERS.

"Art not coming abroad, Dolly? 'Tis a most rare morning."

Morgan was leaning his length against the side-post of the door of Mistress Stowe's kitchen; his head reached to the lintel, and the smoky rafters of the low ceiling were within easy reach of his hand. Dolly stood near the fire, her face rosy with the heat, and her pretty gown hidden beneath a long ap.r.o.n. She glanced through the window into the sunny yard, and then at a pile of dainty cakes she had just kneaded and fashioned.

"Nay, Johnnie, I'll not come this morning. I promised our hostess to bake her some confections after our forest fashion, and I cannot leave so delicate a duty only half done. Go thou with Master Jeffreys, and bring back two l.u.s.ty appet.i.tes. I will bide at home, housewife fashion, and prepare ye the wherewithal to satisfy the appet.i.tes when ye have gotten them."

"Where is thy father?"

"With Mistress Stowe in her parlour. She is showing him some rare things that her brother brought from the Spanish Main. He will have eyes for nothing else this side of noon."

So Morgan joined Jeffreys, and the two went along Chepe westwards towards St. Paul's. At the end of the great street stood the gate known as the "Little Gate," and they went under the low archway into the cathedral precincts. Inside, the place was as busy as Chepe itself. Shops cl.u.s.tered under the wall, their gaudy signs swinging and creaking in the September breeze, and 'prentices cried their masters'

wares and importuned pa.s.sing folk to buy. The two men pushed their way through the throng towards the northern transept of the great church, and there found their path blocked again by a crowd that stood around St. Paul's cross and pulpit, all ears for the words of a popular city preacher. The cleric's discourse was more of a political oration than a sermon. He thundered against "Rome" and the "Scarlet Woman," and denounced the King of Spain as the veritable "child of the devil," and he called upon all men to be up and doing something for the destruction of the "monster." Master Jeffreys stopped to listen, and Morgan had perforce to stay with him. The reverend orator dwelt in glowing terms on the riches of the Indies, the rights of all Christians to a share therein, and the greed of Spain in refusing other nations a proper share. He played upon his audience as a skilled player upon a harp, touching each string of emotion in turn, and then striking a chord to which all strings would vibrate. For a moment he excited religious emotion, then political fervour, then greed, love of glory and adventure, then national pride and hatred of Spain, then all these together by one cunning sentence. The forester out from the west felt his heart beating rapidly, his ears warming and tingling, and his right hand fidgeting with the handle of his sword. His companion could not keep still, and hot e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns sprang from his lips. He was a true Devon man of that roaring time, sailor, patriot, and pirate all rolled into one.

"By my beard, Master Morgan," he gasped, "I have been feeling ill and full of strange qualms and sinkings these many days past. 'Twas an active spirit rebelling against imprisonment in an idle body. I must to sea again--this dalliance in towns and in the company of sleek shopkeepers and peac.o.c.k-garbed gallants is slow death to a fellow of mettle. I must get me down to Plymouth again, and join any bold captain that hath a mind to turn his ship westward ho!"

Morgan sighed. "Bones o' me!" he exclaimed, "the parson hath stirred something within my bosom also."

The sermon--if such it could be called--being ended, the two young men went with the crowd through the church door, and into the dim and lofty transept. And what a crowd it was to find in London's princ.i.p.al church! The pa.s.sage through the building from north to south was a public thoroughfare. Porters, hucksters, errand boys went through with basket and handbarrow, pa.s.sing across aisles and nave before the very screen that shut in choir and altar. Pedlars stood against the tall pillars, and pushed the sale of their wares. Men bought and sold and bargained as in the churchyard outside or Chepe beyond. Servants stood for hire; bravoes lurked behind the gray stone columns in dark corners, ready to take the price of blood from any hand that offered it. Broken men, needy adventurers, dissolute women--all had their regular stations in the sacred building, which was fair, market, and general rendezvous for every cla.s.s and trade, legitimate or illegitimate, that had its footing in London Town.

Master Jeffreys elbowed his way into the nave and strode down the middle aisle, Morgan at his heels, full of astonishment and healthy country disgust. Any gallant who came strutting along to show his fine feathers received scant courtesy or elbow-room from the indignant forester. He thrust more than one roughly aside, without so much as a "by your leave," and his angry face, huge frame, and athletic build forced the hustled ones to keep civil tongues in their heads. Near the western door a knot of brown-faced, lean-looking men were standing, and one started forward at the sight of Jeffreys, hesitated a moment, and then put forth his hand.

"Little Timothy! or tropic suns have blinded my eyes," he cried.

Jeffreys scanned the speaker's weather-stained face.

"It's not Paignton Rob, surely?"

"It's all that's left of him, Timothy."

"Thou art shrunken."

"And lopped, brother, lopped."

"Spain?"

"Inquisition."

"Indies?"

"Vera Cruz. Shall I introduce my friends? We are nigh broken, and not too proud to accept a little charity from a Devon man. Thy heart used not to beat in a n.i.g.g.ard's bosom."

"It has not changed lodgings, Rob. Wilt know my friend here? This is Master Morgan of Gloucestershire--a good west countrie man, to say the least. He has had his cut at King Philip, and is a friend of our gallant Raleigh."

"Then I'm open to love him," cried Paignton Rob, holding out a hand that had lost a thumb. "'Tis a poor grip that fingers can give, Master Morgan," he said apologetically. "The monks of Vera Cruz can best tell thee where little 'thumbkin' is."

Johnnie took the proffered hand. "I am proud to know one who has sailed the Western Ocean," he replied.

The mariner called up his two friends, who proved thumbless like himself.

"Nick Johnson, and Ned his brother, both of Plymouth town. Master Timothy Jeffreys, henchman to Sir Walter Raleigh, and Master Morgan, friend."

Hand-clasps went round. Jeffreys peeped into the purse that hung at his girdle.

"Here is the price of a few flagons of sack, friends. Have you a fancy for any particular tavern?"

"All taverns are alike to thirsty men," answered Rob. "Lead us where thou wilt; we'll speak our thanks under one signboard as well as another."

"What say you then to the 'Silver Lion' in Dowgate?"

"'Tis a good house."

The party left the cathedral by the western door, went south through the churchyard, and out at the gate that led riverwards. Thence they strode down a steep street towards the Dowgate quay, halting at a gabled and timbered tavern within a stone's throw of the water. Down a flight of three steps they went into the sanded parlour, and seated themselves round a corner table. The drawer came bustling up with a "What do ye drink, my masters?"

"Bring us five flagons of sack," said Timothy.

"And a crust for our teeth," whispered Paignton Rob. The ears of the serving-man were keen, "Shall it be a venison pie?" he said.

"A venison pie," broke in Morgan; "and I pay."

Chapter XIX.

PAIGNTON ROB'S STORY.

The three broken sailor men attacked the ample venison pasty with a zeal and thoroughness that betokened long abstention from work of a similar nature, and the sack trickled gratefully down parched throats.

Morgan and Jeffreys drank to their better fortune, but would not touch the food, pleading that their ordinary dinner time was a full hour off, and that they were pledged to make havoc of some pastries made by a certain young gentlewoman, who would undoubtedly be much grieved if they did not eat as heartily as was their wont. So the Paignton man and his Plymouth comrades shared the pie amongst themselves, the two others looking about and noting the other occupants of the inn parlour.

Some of these were known by repute to Jeffreys, and he gave Morgan information concerning them.

The pie-dish stood empty. Johnnie expressed an opinion that apples were roasting somewhere. Nick Johnson sniffed the air, and promptly agreed with him, adding that the fragrance of roasting apples awoke memories of far-off Devon. Whereupon the forester remarked that they had a like effect upon him, and that he was minded to have a dish with a little cream, if all the company would join him. There was no objector, and each man was soon busy with hot apples and cream. After this Jeffreys ordered fresh flagons of wine, and asked Paignton Rob for his story.